


Count to Eight

by SonicScribbly



Series: Red and Blue's my style [1]
Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Humanformers, Robot to Human, humanised characters, scuse me customers service need some help on Tag Isle, um, wow idek what to tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-28 12:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11418045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonicScribbly/pseuds/SonicScribbly
Summary: There's a naked man in her bed.  Bedroom. Both.





	1. Initials

**Author's Note:**

> I legit wrote this and the second part of the (I think it's gonna be a) series in under an hour so sorry in advance if things seem wonky here and there. Let's see… what else to mention. Setting is pre-Season 1, idk if it's gonna be in Jasper, Nevada- didn't really specific a location so feel free to put it wherever I guess. Anyways, hope you enjoy!

_One, two, three, four._

"Heyhey'ey! You're not leaving this house until you've had breakfast, you ~~handsome~~ ass."

_Five, six, seven, eight._

"May I asist you with the preparation of dinner?"

"You set the sink on fire yesterday."

"I—"

"The **sink** O.P. The _**sink**_."

"…I will set the table."

"Fine."

_Two, two, three, four._

"How do you manage to hold your body in such a complex position?"

"Practice O.P. Practice. And a lot of pain."

_Five, six, seven, eight._

"It has been a privilege to know you, C.R. May our paths cross in the time to come." 

* * *

 

"Woah, _easy_ there."

A gentle pressure on his chassis urges him down. He tries to open his optics, but is met only with shadowy figures, blurred shapes, and a strong urge to purge his tanks. Attempts to run a system diagnostic are exercises in futility, and agitate the throbbing ache in his helm. He feels strange. Awful. Like he's overheating. But the sensation is far worse, far more overwhelming. It feels as though every micron of his protoform has been exposed to air, too hot or too cold — he can't tell which. Memory comes to him slowly. Too slowly. In fragments that tell him too little of where he is, what has happened, how he has come to be in such an terrible state. He tries to focus, tries to block out the pain— shut off his pain receptors, divert power to his professor.

His… there was… he can't remember… there was an battle… there was an ambush… there was an energon deposit.

There was an energon deposit, there was a battle… an ambush… he can't remember, Primus, why can't he remember!

His autobots. His autobots… they're in danger! He must go— they need him, they need my help! I need to go. I need to go no—

 _"You need to go nowhere,"_ soothes quiet, gentle voice in his audial. _But my autobots_ — he tries to protest, _"—are safe."_

 _"If you wish to see your autobots, you must rest."_ Gentle pressure on his helm— a servo. An incredibly soft, gentle servo, stroking his helm, his brow, his cheek. The voice washes away his fears and resistance like the waves upon sand, promising his family is safe. The voice is soft and gentle, and sounds so very sincere. He wishes to protest; he wants to see his family with his own optics. But he is tired, and he has not even the strength nor willpower to keep his optics open. As a carrier soothes their distressed sparkling, the voice calms his harried spark.

And lulls him into oblivion.

* * *

There's a naked man in her bedroom. He's been asleep for three days now, mostly. Fitful bouts of waking interrupt his comatose state, and she seizes them as opportunities to feed him, keep him hydrated, and maybe tease some semblance of information out of him, though she finds she never needs to resort to such methods. He talks in his sleep. A lot.

 _Autobots, Deceptions, Megatron._ That means it's a bad nightmare. First time it happened, she hadn't really known if those were the words he'd said, considering he'd been strangling himself in his sleep whilst reliving a haunting memory. Or a few. She'd pried his hands off his neck. Cuffed them to the bedpost. Tied down his legs for good measure. No need for him to strangle and/or kick her, or himself again. She's prepared the next time it happens. Cuffs and ropes are wielded. Form beneath her, bound to the bed. She brews batch of strong tea. Pulls a book from the shelf. Pulls a chair up beside the bed. Watches over him all the way 'till dawn, when his muscles no longer strain against their bonds and his brow is no longer furrowed in pain, desperation, fear. His face is almost peaceful in the light of dawn. She gives it ten minutes, then releases him, then coaxes him back to awareness just long enough to put some food and water in him. She runs down to the mall and buys a set of clothes. They may not fit right, but they'll have to do for now.

 _Ratchet, Bumblebee, Arcee, Cliffjumper, Bulkhead._ That means she can rest easy — so long as he's not shouting the words. He's sleeping like the dead when she moves him off the bed and wipes him down with a damp towel. The sheets are soaked with his sweat. She unwraps his bandages, cleans his wounds. Makes sure they're not infected. Redresses his wounds, wraps them up again. Pulls the clean set of clothes over his body. Changes the sheets. Doesn't bother to make the bed before, as gently as she can, heaving him back on and pulling the covers over him. Checks if he's woken up, feeds him and hydrates him when he has. Waits for him to go back to sleep. Gives it another ten minutes in case nightmares decide to rear their ugly heads. She does the laundry, cleans up the house, gets ready for work. Pauses in the doorway. She calls her mobile on her landline, puts the phone on the beside table and leaves the line open all through work. Comes home, ends the call. Leaves the bathroom door open when she showers. Towel dries her hair. Slips into the chair by the bed.

 _Where_ and _what_ are as far as he gets before he's interrupted by a coughing fit. She pats his back. Gives him some water. Answers his questions as best she can. Doesn't offer her name nor ask for his, and neither does he. She feeds him, makes sure he's hydrated, urges him to rest. Promises she'll be there to help when he wakes up, and soothes him back to sleep. She doesn't wait this time, just leaves the door wide open, keeps her footsteps quiet, her movement quieter and comes back after taking in the laundry. Folds the clothes in the room. Has a rather bold pair of lingerie in her hands that he sees when he wakes up again. He stares. She sets it aside and arms herself with sippy cups of baby food, blended vegetables and water. Helps him sit up. Hands him the cup when he reaches out for it instead of holding it herself. Catches the cup as it falls when it slips from his grip. His hands are shaking hard. She casts out for a topic to distract him with. To distract them both with. When she asks for his name, he hesitates to give it.

"Just you initials then. C.R.'s mine."

"…P," he replies in a baritone voice, beautiful despite its hoarseness. She loves it. He takes a sip of water and speaks again. "My initials are O.P."

She wonders if she can persuade him into reading off of a phonebook.

 

 


	2. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go downhill fast after they exchange names. He's burning up, but he's not infected, and she doesn't know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aayyy chapter two y'all !! let me know what you think about it in the comments! :D warning for C.R.'s potty mouth - she doesn't swear too much but there's some profanity here and there

Things go downhill _fast_ after the exchange names. Initials. He'd been healing well so far, but when she lays a hand against his forehead to check his temperature before her shift, she recoils immediately. He's practically as hot as a _fucking flame_. She whispers. Softly, and with great feeling: **_what the fuck?_** She unwraps his bandages, checks his wounds. No signs of infection. _What the hell is going on. What the hell has gone wrong._  Her shift starts in two hours. She lives an hour away from work. It'll take longer if there's traffic. There's always traffic. She doesn't know what to do. He's burning up, but there's no infection, and she doesn't know _what's happening -_ _she doesn't know what to do!_

_Calm down C.R. You've never gotten anything done when panicking._

Panic subsides to a dull sense of dread at the back of her mind. She runs to the bathroom and turns on the tap, letting cold water fill the bath. _No fucking time to get ice just gonna have to keep changing the water._ Grabs a thermometer and chucks it on the side of the bathtub. Runs back to the bedroom. Has her arms halfway around him when she pauses. Looks down, considering. She tries to coax him awake. It's difficult - he's unresponsive, whether it's from the fever or nightmares she's uncertain. She decides on the former; he _talks_ when he dreams and so far, he's been mum. She calls his name, shakes his shoulder lightly. No response. She pokes his wound a _tad_ rougher than she knows is comfortable, even through the painkillers. Not her best solution, but it works; O.P. opens his eyes slowly, groaning softly. Kneeling by the bed, she speaks to him softly and gently. Cups his cheek and directs his glassy gaze to hers. Asks him if he thinks he can stand. He leans into her touch. 

" _Hot_ ," he moans weakly after a pause, as though he struggled to find the word. She wouldn't doubt him if he did. He's struggling to keep his eyes open. 

" _I know, I know_ ," she soothes, instinctively running a hand through his hair to comfort him - a motion she's adopted from her mother. She keeps her voice soft, traces his cheekbone with her thumb. "You're burning up. I'm going to put you in a cold bath. Can you stand?" 

His eyelids flutter close, open, close. He turns, shaking arms moving under his body to push himself off the bed and she moves quickly, supporting his every movement. She helps him sit up, wraps her arms around his torso. Presses a kiss to his temple and whispers praise in his ear whilst his head lolls to her shoulder. His legs makes their sluggish journey to the floor. She holds him firmly and begins to rise. Together they make slow, wobbly progress to the bathroom. His balance is _off_. He's barely able to stand upright, much less walk forward. He leans on her heavily. She doesn't mind. That he's able to walk _at all_ takes some strain off her muscles. The fact that he's _awake_ alone, takes a huge burden off her mind. 

They make it to the bathroom without incident and she guides him down to sit on the edge of the bathtub, manoeuvring herself into the icy water without hesitation, though she flinches and bites back a hiss at its frigidness. A half-assed smack to the tap turns off the water. She turns back to O.P. and slowly guides him into the bath. He cries out weakly when his skin makes contact with the freezing water and tries to pull away. Her heart goes out to him, it really does. But she _needs_ him in the bath, so she holds fast. Kneels up. Whispers words of praise and support into his ears, his hair, his temple. He yields to her care and she slowly, gently, pulls him in, holding his body firmly against hers to prevent him from slipping. Ruthlessly gritting her teeth when they begin to chatter, she berates herself for not having the foresight to do this differently. She doesn't think of alternatives. She _can't_ \- the frigid cold has her mind in its unmerciful grasp. _Stupid, stupid, so fucking stupid._

She exhales harshly through her nose, trying to pull herself together as best she can. Her arms are solid around O.P.'s chest. His head rests against her clavicle. The heat from his body warms her, and though she's still shivering, her teeth no longer chatter. Now that she thinks of it - now that she _can_ think of it, he's probably the only thing that's going to keep her from hypothermia.

She glances to the side where her phone and gun sit on a stool beside the bathtub. _What? Oh, right._ She'd meant to take a shower before leaving. She frees a hand, flicks water off it. Checks the time on her phone. Sighs. Glances down at the restless form in her arms. Arm. Bathtub. O.P. is tense, his brow is furrowed, and from his lips spill words that she can't make sense of. She calls work. Lets them know she won't becoming in for her shift. It's shitty that she's calling in so late, but her voice is rough and shaky enough for her to effectively feign sickness. Not that she really needs to, being an independent contractor and shit. Plus her boss likes her. She brings in a shitton of clients. He'll let her off this time at least.

She sets alarms to wake her up, just in case she falls asleep - not that she'll be _able_ to with this cold, and being this vulnerable. _Fucking hell - should really have thought this out better._ She sets her phone down, puts her arm back around O.P. and waits.

* * *

The alarm wakes her up. She looks at it blearily, not bothering to shake water off her arm when she blindly taps her phone to turn it off. _So much for not being able to fall asleep._ A long, drawn out sigh escapes her. She rubs her eyes with her free hand, blinking a few times to clear the haze from her vision. The bathroom is patterned with stripes of shadows and rays of light. A warm beam illuminates the pale face tucked under her chin. O.P. is motionless, save for the rise and fall of his chest. He mumbles something that sounds like "Omega post". She hears a "autonomous" and "organisms" as well. She thinks she catches a "siebrtrn". _Sibertron? Cyburtren?_ She shakes her head.

The water, she notices now that she's more awake, is warmer. O.P.'s body is still hot, but he's not burning up as badly as before. She feels around for the thermometer. Checks his temperature once it's in her grasp. _Yeah, 38.9._ She sighs quietly, relieved. Thank the fucking Lord, she thinks, putting the thermometer aside and running her fingers through his hair, muttering a quiet prayer into the tangled locks. _His organs aren't going to be frying in his body at the very least._ Still, he's not out of the woods yet. She worries for him. Reaching down behind her, she gropes around for the bath plug, pulling it out when her fingers find it. She lets the water drain till there's around a quarter of it left, then seals the bath again and turns on the tap. Counts the seconds, minutes that pass whilst the tub fills, squirming when she's assaulted, once again, by cold water. O.P. mumbles, fidgeting slightly as well, but doesn't stir from his slumber. For a moment she envies him, but quickly decides that no, she really doesn't. When the bath is full again, she turns off the tap, adjusts her hold on him and leans back against the tub. She worries for him all through the night.

* * *

It's around six in the morning, _when her twelth fuckin' alarm goes off_ , when his fever breaks. She wakes up at the alarm, and slaps her phone until it's silenced. O.P.'s feeling a lot cooler now. He's mumbling incoherently, dreaming. She checks his temperature to be certain, nearly crying in relief when she sees it's a solid 37.5 degrees. Yeah, it's a good sign, and he's well in the safe zone. She allows herself a few moments of relief. Presses a kiss into his mussed hair and his temple, and relaxes against the back of the tub for a minute.

Moment of relaxation over, she sits up and tries to coax O.P. awake - calls his name, shakes him a little. Prods his wound. _No good. He's out._ She sighs.

* * *

It takes a fair bit of effort to get out of the tub without slipping, or letting O.P. fall. She takes extra care when navigating the bathroom floor. No need for her to trip or stumble and drop him, breaking his stitches. _That would be disastrous._ She sets him down on the toilet, and couches for a moment. She feels a little tired. Her head drops. _Fuck._ She shakes her head sharply, slapping her cheeks in an attempt to banish sleep from her mind, and tries to wake O.P. up again. _Nope, he's dead to the world._ She sighs again. Makes sure he's not slipping off the toilet, then pads into the bedroom. First, she grabs the first aid kit sitting on the floor beside the bed. Then, she grabs a bunch of towels and a fresh set of clothes for both of them. _Great. Time to work._

O.P.'s breath hitches slightly as she dries him off, but he doesn't stir. She moves slowly, pinching herself hard enough to leave a mark in her flesh when sleep creeps back into her mind. She's hit with an absurd sense of deja vu when she pulls his clothes off, and fails to bite back her snickers. Hopefully he's got a sense of timing and won't wake up until she's done, otherwise things are gonna get awkward. For him. She removes his bandages, checking his wounds to see if they got wet. Surprisingly none did. She's not about to complain. _Thank god for miracles._ She puts on fresh bandages and pulls clothes over his body. Now it's her turn.

She strips as quickly as she can manage, eager to be dry, and towels off before pulling on her fresh set of clothes. The soaked clothes and wet towels, she dumps in the laundry basket, the bandages, in the bin.

She feels a thread of surprise weaving through her muddled thoughts, at how much of a struggle it is to get O.P. back to the bed. Her steps aren't certain. She nearly stumbles once, twice. Her pace is sluggish. Come to think of it, she hasn't had proper sleep in almost twenty hours - just short, fitful naps. She's _exhausted_.

She makes it to the bed. Miraculously manages to _gently_ lower O.P. down instead of dropping him. _Heaves_ his legs over the side of the bed. Pushes him towards the centre. She pulls the covers over him, blindly trying to him in. Extended pauses punctuate her slow movements. She stares vacantly at band logo on his t-shirt, body hovering over his, arms on the verge of giving out. _Ah… she knows what that is… A.C.D.—_

She's asleep before her head hits his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love it? hate it?? let me know! (I hope you enjoyed it though *sweats*)

**Author's Note:**

> End part 1! Lemme know what you thought of it in the comments yo!


End file.
